Gehenna
by TrenchcoatsAreSexy
Summary: Jesse has fallen hard, and Walt declares he'll save him from himself - whether Jesse wants it or not. Walt/Jesse and Jesse/Andrea.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** Dark fic. Probably the darkest I've ever written. Non-con, dub-con, BDSM, prostitution, drug use, throwing up, abuse. And probably more in the future. Be warned.

**A/N:** Named for the song by Slipknot.

**Part 1**

"How much?"

The voice was a whisper against Jesse's ear. He could smell the alcohol, could almost _hear_ it, somehow. It burnt.

He knew it would hurt. He was past caring.

Mr. White had been proven right; when Jesse hadn't gotten the five million, he'd burnt the rest of his money on junk and speed. He couldn't sleep, otherwise, couldn't wake up. He'd cordoned off a certain amount of money to support the house, and for Andrea's rent, but besides that, he was broke.

So he'd been reduced to this. Sitting in an ally on this cold Albuquerque night, offering himself up for money, for a hit.

Mr. White would spit on him if he knew, or maybe he'd just laugh. Or maybe he'd kill him. At this point, Jesse would just let him; Saul would make sure Andrea kept getting the money.

Jesse stroked his hand down the opposite arm, tracing the blackened trails and swallowing nervously.

"Twenty bucks." His voice was low. The look in the man's eyes… he didn't like it. Maybe he'd be one of the men Wendy had confessed her fear of, the ones who'd strangle you and leave you in a ditch just because they could, because it was fun for them.

"Thirty," the man replied, "If I can rough you up a little."

"Thirty," Jesse echoed. His voice was hollow. "Where's your car?"

"I'd rather we do this right here."

Jesse felt hands on his head, forcing him down before he could catch his breath. His face was in the dirt, and then it was up again, and he was choking, hands flailing, his slowed-down system panicking. He couldn't breathe and couldn't get away. There was no air to use to beg or plead, and he'd agreed to this, hadn't he?

Not _this_. When he finally got a chance to breathe, he came up coughing and sputtering, eyes wide with terror.

"Take a hike." The voice came out of nowhere and, at first, Jesse thought he'd imagined it. Then it came again. "Take a hike. Or I'll blow a hole in your back."

Jesse slumped into the dirt, slowly looking up. The man in front of him disappeared, scattered, and from behind him emerged a man he thought he'd never see again.

Mr. White.

Jesse pictured a scene. He hadn't spent a lot of time paying attention in church as a kid, but he pictured Mr. White leaning down and lifting Jesse up, telling him to sin no more and sending him safely on his way.

Christ-like wasn't exactly Mr. White's M.O., however, and that hadn't changed.

"Get up." The voice was tinged with disgust, with contempt. "Unless you'd rather stay here in filth, Jesse."

Jesse moved his palms, lifted himself as he felt jagged edges dig against his hands. He got to his feet but hung his head in front of Mr. White.

"I doubt that this is what you want."

Jesse shook his head. It wasn't what he wanted, but it was what he was. He was nothing. He was dirt. What was Mr. White doing here, anyway?

"I can help you."

He attached his hand to Jesse's hoodie and yanked, like it was a leash and Jesse was a dog.

Jesse followed.

* * *

"Take off your shoes. You'll track mud on the floor," Mr. White directed as Jesse entered the condo. Jesse did. It hurt to bend down. Every muscle ached. He must be coming down; the fuzzy cotton sleepy feeling was giving way to sharp pinprick pains along his arms, legs and stomach. "Living here, you'll learn," Mr. White was saying, and Jesse gave him a confused look. Mr. White's gaze was exasperated, disappointed. "If you're good, you'll get privileges. If you're bad, you get punished."

Jesse's eyes opened wide, frightened.

"What kind of punishments?"

Mr. White smiled.

"Let's try not to find out. Why don't we go have some dinner?"

"Mr. White, I can't eat. I feel sick."

"Gee, wonder why that is." The older man reached out and yanked Jesse's arm without warning. He howled. "Hmmm, the idiot junkie has got infected track marks. Wonderful. Haven't you seen _Requiem for a Dream_? You want your arm to have to get cut off?" He yanked again for good measure, and Jesse's eyes filled with tears.

"Mr. White, stop! Please! Ow. Jeez."

The older man finally let go.

"Jesse, Jesse," he murmured, "I don't want to hurt you, but you see, that's the only way the message gets through your head." He tapped Jesse's forehead. "I just want you to live, and ot like this."

Jesse swallowed.

"Is my arm gonna be okay?"

"I think it'll be alright," Mr. White said after a moment. "But we'll have to keep an eye on it. You need to stop injecting. No questions asked. Otherwise you won't have an arm to inject into. You'd _really_ be pathetic then, wouldn't you?"

Jesse whimpered.

"Eat."

"I'll throw up if I eat."

Mr. White shrugged.

"At least you'll be keeping some of it down. You're too skinny. You're going to eat. Unless you'd rather go back out on the street and let men rape you for money."

Jesse rolled his eyes and crossed his arms protectively.

"Not exactly rape if I get paid, is it?"

Mr. White's only reply to that was a derisive snort.

"Eat," he compelled again, a few moments later. Jesse found himself being shoved towards the table. His head lulled as he sat, and before long Mr. White was in front of him, holding a sandwich.

"I'm going to throw up," Jesse whimpered again, "Please. Mr. White. This is bullshit."

Mr. White gave him a look that stated in no uncertain terms that it wasn't a request. Jesse opened his mouth, chewed the bit of sandwich and swallowed it. It tasted like… like sawdust or something. His stomach rolled, but he forced down a few more bites.

Then his stomach turned like he'd had a knife forced in. He leaned over and threw up, lurched forward and slumped his head. Everything hurt. His head was pounding. He felt hot everywhere.

He could hear himself apologizing, pleading for Mr. White to not be angry with him. He was surprised to feel hands on his back, soothing him.

"It's all right, Jesse. It's all right. I'll clean it up and clean you up, too."

Jesse closed his eyes, let Mr. White do the work for him, let him wipe his lips and lead him into the bathroom, into the shower. His clothes were removed and tossed into a hamper.

He was in a daze through the shower; then he was vaguely conscious of being dressed again and led into a bed, a soft bed.

"I have to go," Mr. White told him.

Jesse raised his head desperately.

"Where?"

"Home. I'll be back in the morning."

He slumped back down and faintly heard Mr. White lock the door. He was trapped.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This story is an AU of "Gliding Over All"; Walt never gave Jesse the money.**

**Part Two**

Andrea Cantillo shifted her weight to her left side. Her mother's voice rang in her head: _stand up straight, Andrea! Quit slouching!_

The barrettes went in her hair next, before she took them out and pulled her hair into a ponytail instead.

He had to go see Jesse. She couldn't even put a finger on it. It'd be a few months since she'd seen him last, since he'd broken it off with her, that haunted look in his eyes that told her it wasn't because he didn't love her but because he did.

Since then, she'd tried to write the whole thing off, tried to focus on Brock and on getting her general shit back together. She'd started classes at the community college, wrestling with English Comp and a Spanish class she'd thought would be an easy A but instead frustrated her because her classmates rolled in late and asked idiotic questions.

But she couldn't stop thinking about Jesse. She found that something dangerously close to love took root in her chest whenever she recalled his voice, his touch. The way he'd been so kind to her son, to her; the way he'd smiled like he'd forgotten how to until he saw her.

After the failed writing off had come the double-edged hopes, wishing that a forgotten item or missed period would make her need to go over there. But nothing had forced her hand.

She'd have to force her own. Make some kind of soap opera confession with incidental music and big pauses about how she loved him no matter what, and how she'd wait.

She _did_ love him, as impractical as it all was, and she _would_ wait – she didn't have much other choice.

Or she could go looking for him. Go to his house, get a sitter for Brock in case she found Jesse in a state.

Maybe that's what she would do.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she'd go looking.

* * *

Jesse awoke from a sleep that had happened more out of exhaustion than an actual desire to sleep. The bed was warm but the condo had a chill to it. Maybe Mr. White just liked it cooler, or maybe it was from the withdrawal. Jesse wasn't sure.

"Mr. White?" he called, wondering if the older man had come back yet. When he heard no response, he gingerly got off the bed and climbed to his feet.

He looked around at the room; Mr. White's bedroom, it must have been, but it held so few of his possessions that it might as well have been a guest room.

In a way, Jesse figured, it had become one. A room to house Jesse, to keep him out of trouble, to save him from himself.

His fingers traced the wall. The room seemed oddly safe, though he was ill at ease about those "punishments" Mr. White had alluded to. He couldn't really be serious, could he? It had to just be scare tactics to keep Jesse in line. He didn't really want to find out, though. Not after Mr. White had ordered the deaths of those nine men. He'd heard all about it; God, one of them had been burned alive.

Jesse shuddered, hard. And he still didn't know Mike's fate. He hoped the man had gotten away safely and was lying on a beach somewhere, but he really didn't know. Mr. White had been so very bitter and jealous of Mike. Had he hurt him somehow, or worse?

That was when Jesse heard the sound of the door opening, and the hurried steps entering the condo.

Jesse instinctively jumped back into bed, like a child trying not to get caught doing something wrong. His ears still burned, and he still ached.

"Jesse?" Mr. White's voice called.

"Yeah," Jesse yelled back. The older man appeared in the doorway with one of those half-smiles, the ones that Jesse had learned to be suspicious of.

"How did you sleep?"

"Good, I guess," Jesse replied. He sat up on the bed. "Are you gonna do that every night? Leave me and go home?"

Mr. White shrugged.

"Did you dream?" It was an odd question. Jesse almost said "no", just on first instinct, but he remembered a flash of something.

"Yeah," he mumbled, "I dreamt about an old woman who didn't have one of her feet. Well, she had it, but it wasn't, like, attached. She carried it along on a string. Like dragged it behind her like a kid with one of those rolling toys." Jesse shuddered. "What could that mean?"

Mr. White shrugged.

"Must be the drugs."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

There was not really much to do in Mr. White's condo over the next day, whether the older man was there or not. When he was home, the two watched TV and Jesse managed to eat another sandwich and actually keep it down this time. Everything about him felt listless, draggy, like the weight of him was too much to hold up.

Mr. White, for his part, was patient thus far. He watched Jesse with a curious eye, the same way he'd watched reactions go down in the lab. He made no more cruel remarks and actually seemed kind of glad to have Jesse around. Through the fog, he figured that even though Mr. White and his wife were back together, things probably weren't going all that well.

Jesse shrugged. He figured it was no worse than being back at his parents', helping to set the table.

"Sure, okay. What do you need me to do?"

"We need to clean this place. I haven't been here in weeks and it's gotten dusty and… just needs to be cleaned. And the bathroom. You need to bleach it."

Jesse's head came up.

"Is this where the punishments come in?" he asked quietly. His throat was dry.

Mr. White gave a dark smile.

"If you do what you're supposed to, you won't find out. Isn't that right, Jesse? Now, I need you to head to the bathroom and clean."

* * *

Jesse's fingers hurt. He thought he'd been scrubbing for the past hour, but if he was completely honest, he really didn't know. He still felt like shit; his stomach kept cramping up, protesting every movement, and every breath. He wondered how long it would take to dissipate and leave him, without the help of the chemical aids he'd had in rehab. On that end, he wished he could just take some painkillers and go back to bed, but Mr. White hadn't offered and he didn't really know if he wanted to ask.

His hand went back to his stomach again. Of all the pains he'd come to know this past year and a half, this somehow managed to be worse than the broken ribs or the bruises, or even the deep ache inside, the feeling of being unclean. The withdrawal seemed to love to wrench him to two, break him apart as it took, took, took and demanded still more.

Jesse tilted back his head and let out a little cry. He could see what had lured Jane to the needle, he always had, but now he knew what must have always lured her back when she'd tried to break away.

If only he could go out and find just a hit. Enough to take the edge off so he could get through the day. But unless he wanted to climb out the window (and he didn't), he couldn't, and if he left, Mr. White might not allow him to come back. As bad as this was, at least he wasn't back on the street – at the thought, he felt the fingers clasping around his neck, and the breath in his ear, the idea of being strangled and left in a ditch. The first time the customer was cruel and wouldn't stop even when Jesse pleaded with him, told him he was bleeding and crawled off later with all the wind knocked out of him. That time he'd found Wendy and collapsed sobbing in a heap next to her because she was the only face he recognized.

He swallowed hard and kept scrubbing. The grime would come off eventually, and then there'd be a nice clean shine.

* * *

Andrea began her search at Jesse's house. The sight of it brought up memories for her, the feeling of Jesse's arms around her, the soft kiss of his lips and the way his voice would whisper in her ear. Even that time he'd called her out, he'd never yelled, and that was one of the things she liked best about him. She had become trained to flinch from a yell, from the rising voice that signaled a fist flying towards her.

She could still feel Jesse inside her, the way he never claimed, never took. He was always so careful, even when she'd just been a one night stand that was never supposed to turn into something. That was Jesse, soft and careful.

She fingered the key and placed it in the lock, turned it and felt the door give way. Maybe she'd walk in on Jesse and some other girl, and that'd be, well, it'd be whatever it was. It wasn't like they were still together. Jesse could be lost, so lost something like when she'd rung his doorbell to ask about the money and he'd been so strung out like he hadn't slept in days, like he was afraid to sleep.

She stepped inside. The house was quiet. Well, for what it was worth, there was no sound of a bed creaking. But her mind quickly went from that unfavorable scenario – though she didn't care, _totally_ didn't care if Jesse was sleeping with some other girl, really – to a worse one. What if Jesse was up in bed, overdosed, dead and had been that way for days?

Catching him with some girl would be better. _You've gotta be alive to fuck,_ she reminded herself dryly.

She walked about the living room, into the kitchen, and up the stairs, into the bedrooms. There was no sign of Jesse, but no sign of a struggle, either. She couldn't help but feel unsettled, though. He could be out, that could be it, but something was telling there that that wasn't it. He hadn't left out beer or video games like he did when he was leaving but coming back in a few hours; it seemed a more systematic leaving for good.

She swallowed hard and took out her phone, hitting Jesse's number.

"Yo, this is Jesse. Leave it at the beep."

"Hey, Jesse. It's… it's Andrea. I just want to hear from you… so… uh… whenever you get this, can you give me a call back? Thanks… uh, talk to you later."

She hung up and drug her hand over her face. Where could she go from here? Just say here and wait until he got back? Wasn't that just way too "Fatal Attraction", though?

But she couldn't just turn around and leave, either. Something, some kind of intuition was telling her that Jesse was in some kind of danger. And who was going to save him, if she didn't? Who was going to care about him if she didn't?

She remembered how Jesse would tremble in his sleep when they were together, how he'd cry. The way she'd hold him and whisper comfort when he was still asleep and probably couldn't remember it in the morning. He was broken. She wasn't going to be able to put him back together. But that wasn't her aim.

She just wanted him back in one piece.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

Jesse had collapsed on the bathroom floor by the time Mr. White came in to check on him. The older man shook him awake.

The first thing Jesse was conscious of was Mr. White's voice telling him, "Looks good. Do you want something to eat?"

Jesse sleepily nodded. He was starving. The older man extended his hand and Jesse gripped it with his good one, hoisting himself up and following his host into the dining room. He had set up plates, forks, and knives.

"What's for dinner?" Jesse asked. His tongue was thick in his mouth. Everything felt uncomfortable, but it had stopped being totally painful. He guessed he had worked through the worst of it. His arm was still throbbing, though, on and off; he got used to it, somehow. He had to.

"Spaghetti," Mr. White replied.

"Great," Jesse enthused, taking a seat. When Mr. White served it, Jesse dug in, scooping up forkfuls. "Thank you," he said in between bites. Mr. White nodded, seemingly in a kind of approval.

"You look better," he commented.

"I feel better," Jesse admitted. "What are we doing tonight?"

"I think you've worked hard enough today," Mr. White replied, "I'm going back to my house. You can stay here. Watch TV and relax."

"Can't I go out?" Jesse asked, "Go to the mall or something?" Now that he was feeling less dead, he was starting to realize how much he missed the feeling of the sun on his face, the smell of flowers and trees.

Mr. White's eyes darkened.

"You will not leave this condo."

Jesse swallowed. The punishment Mr. White had threatened hovered in his mind.

"Okay."

Mr. White reached up and patted him on the head.

"Good."

* * *

Andrea shifted from side to side, foot to foot as she rang the doorbell. She probably should have called first, or instead, but maybe this would be more fruitful.

The door opened, and an older blonde woman appeared in the doorway. Behind her was an older man, and a preteen boy.

"Hi, uh, Mrs. Pinkman?" Andrea inquired.

"Yes?" the woman asked. She looked less than thrilled at the intrusion. "How may I help you?"

"My name is Andrea. I'm looking for Jesse."

Mrs. Pinkman sighed.

"Come in. Sit down." She ushered her inside and gestured for her to take a seat on the couch, which she did. When Andrea had crossed one leg over the other and vice versa three times, the woman spoke again. "I assume you want to see my son for… personal reasons."

Andrea blinked.

"Yeah, I guess so." She gazed around the room and noticed that the boy was looking at her with distrust. She didn't like it; they all put her on edge. "Have you seen him?"

"No," Mrs. Pinkman replied, "But if you're… in trouble…" Andrea opened her mouth once she caught the meaning, about to respond.

The boy cut in, "The clinic's on 8th Street."

"Jacob!" Mrs. Pinkman exclaimed, appalled.

Andrea's eyes flared.

"Maybe someone should've given that address to your mother, you little smartass!"

The Pinkmans' eyes turned towards Andrea.

"Uh, sorry." She caught her breath. Why did this all have to be so frustrating? Did she really think she was going to find out any more by coming him than by going by Jesse's house? Jesse hadn't mentioned his parents _or_ his brother… and Andrea was starting to see why. She raised her hand. "I'm not pregnant. Totally, very much not pregnant. I would just like to find Jesse. He's important to me and I want to make sure that he's all right."

Mrs. Pinkman looked at her and sighed.

"I'm sorry Miss…"

"Cantillo."

"But I haven't talked to my son in at least the last six months. Last person to come around asking about him was some DEA Agent. Schrader was his name. I can't help you there. I hope you find him, though. I'm glad my son has someone who cares about him."

Andrea started at the comment, wondering if it meant Jesse's parents no longer did. But she didn't say it.

"Thank you for your help," she said instead, then hesitated before adding, "Like I said, I'm not pregnant. But I do have a little son who… he's six. And he loves Jesse and Jesse loves him so if… if somehow you do see him, tell him that Andrea and Brock love him and want him to come home." Somehow she managed to say the words without tearing up, but she said them to the floor. "Anyway, uh… Thank you for your time." She stood, turned, and walked out the door.

Jesse had to be somewhere. And if she really was the only person left who cared about him, that meant she needed to find him even more. She would stop at nothing.

She loved him. She knew that now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

Jesse had watched three episodes of Twin Peaks in a row. His mind had started wandering, and his body was restless.

He had never thought so much about the sun and the light before in his life. He was probably going to catch hell from Mr. White if he went out walking around…

But he was going to get cabin fever if he stayed. Who even knew when Mr. White was coming back, anyway?

And it wasn't like he had to find out.

But he didn't have the key to the condo. He would lock himself out…

Unless…

Jesse grabbed a doorstop, a wooden one with a random sad looking cat on it, and slid it in between the door frame and the actual door, before stepping through.

Freedom. He was out in the fresh air. He drank it in. It felt so good, so rich, like drinking ice cold water after being in the heat for hours.

He rubbed his hands against his shirt. He needed to change soon, needed to shower more. He could smell the sweat and grime.

But right now it didn't matter. He looked around the condo and took in its surroundings for the first time. His new home.

He reached up and rubbed his eyes. The sun was starting to make them ache. It was time to go back inside.

He approached the front door and prepared to let himself in. His eyes darted down the door, as if he didn't understand what he was looking at, not at first.

The wind. The wind must have knocked out the doorstop and blown the door closed.

He was locked out. His heart thumped in a frenzied panic. Surely Mr. White wouldn't really punish him, surely it was all smoke and mirrors and talking a big game, wasn't it?

_Oh God but what if… _His heart skipped and he felt faint. How much did he really even know the man anymore?

Perhaps he could open a window and slip in – he was pretty skinny, wasn't he?

He made his way around to the nearest window and fumbled with it, trying to pry it open and up. His fingers ached. Had it been worth it, for whatever Mr. White was going to do? How long would he have to stay out here?

He sat down, curled in on himself, and wept, hidden from view by the back of the condo.

* * *

He must have been there at least a few hours by the time the older man arrived back at the condo.

"Mr. White," he pleaded weakly, tentatively, "I got locked out."

The man rounded on him.

"Jesse! You junkie idiot! How much more clearly could I tell you…" He grabbed Jesse's neck and, after unlocking the door, shoved him inside. He toppled over, hit the ground.

"Mr. White, please, come on," Jesse begged. His mind buzzed with the odd realization that he had beaten Mr. White in a fight twice – he was stronger than him, at least at his best. But here he was cowering, a child afraid of an angry parent, a child little older than Brock. Why was he giving Mr. White this power?

He didn't have time to analyze it before the man cut in.

"You apparently don't listen. Maybe you'll listen when I give you something to remember this by."

Jesse's chin nodded of its own accord. At least if Mr. White did this, maybe he wouldn't be so mad anymore, wouldn't be angry. He needed Mr. White to be nice to him; he was the one who cared about him when his parents didn't, when no one did. He needed Mr. White.

"You agree? Good. We need to do this, Jesse." There was a kind of cold softness to his voice now. "Now stand with your hands on the couch and lean forward. And take your clothes off. They're disgusting."

"What are you going…"

"Just do it, Jesse." The words were said with no anger, just simple determination. That was scarier. Jesse complied, stripped off his clothing and wadded it into a ball. "Down on your knees." Jesse listened. Had it been worth it? Just to feel the sun and smell the grass?

He closed his eyes as he heard the clink of Mr. White undoing his belt.

He sucked in a breath and hadn't let it out yet when the first blow hit. The pain was red hot, a little explosion against his skin; again and again until Jesse lost count, traveling up his ass and into his lower back. He didn't move. He stayed.

Eventually the pain stopped and he heard in a fuzzy, blurry daze Mr. White telling him to stand up. He tried. His legs were rubber. He pictured himself like Gumby, clay that could fall apart if split or mashed. His arm was throbbing again too, which was odd because he hadn't hit it; maybe he had been leaning on it.

"Come on. Get up." When he failed again, rising and flopping to his knees again, Mr. White firmly grasped his good arm and slowly lifted him up. "There you are, Jesse. It's alright." Jesse's eyes opened and he turned towards the older man. His eyes felt wet , but he couldn't remember crying. "It's all right, Jesse," Mr. White coaxed. "Let's go get you some clothes. I have some things in my closet."

His touch was firm but gentle. Jesse's fluttered like a butterfly that had lost its wing somehow, broken it, and he wondered at how natural it felt to be nude whilst Mr. White was still fully clothed; it bore none of the humiliation that it should.

Maybe it was just the way of things.

"You ought to be glad I came back when I did. It's supposed to rain soon. You'd have caught a hell of a cold out there. Here's a shirt, Jesse, this might fit you, and here are some shorts. Go get dressed and then go to bed. I'll stay here with you tonight."


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six**

Andrea dreamt of Jesse that night. Dreamt of him like he'd never be found, like he was gone somewhere else and now he only existed in her dreams at all.

Dreamt of him lying at the bottom of the ocean as the tide eroded him, swept him away.

Dreamt of the child they'd never have together lying in a rocker at the edge of her home, rocking back and forth and looking at her with some kind of expectation.

Dreamt of a shallow grave with Jesse in it, hands clasped over his chest as he slept, slept forever – as he dreamt of her dreaming of him?

When she awoke, she paced, wondering where to look for him, where to find him. There had to be a place. Maybe if she looked hard enough, there would be some sign. But did he even want to be found?

That question she answered not in her head but in her heart. It had been real love, pained love that Jesse had looked at her with. He needed her, even if he didn't know it yet. Somehow, when she found him… He would know that it was right. That she was right.

When she found him, she'd wrap him in her arms and she'd feel his lips against hers. Those soft, careful lips that she couldn't resist, not ever.

She just needed to figure out where to look.

She paced the floor. What about that friend of Jesse's that he'd introduced her to? The one who had been over his house the day that she and Brock had dropped in so that she could cook Jesse dinner? He had looked surprised when she had come in, nearly startled. The darkness had gone back into his eyes, the fear.

He'd broken up with her that night.

She had to find him. She had to find him.

* * *

When Jesse awoke, he was immediately conscious of a few very distinct things. First of all, his ass still ached, and so did his back. When he slowly reached back, he could feel angry red marks where the belt had hit. They were raised, like the numbers on a credit card, and Jesse felt a strange kind of fascination when he ran his fingers over them. The memory was horrible, but there was something there, the realization that Mr. White would keep him, even if he were bad. Even if he had to punish him to make him learn.

Mr. White was sleeping soundly next to him. Jesse smiled. He had stayed. He had told the truth. Jesse wanted to wake him up and thank him, but just the same he was fearful of the potential repercussions of awakening Mr. White when he didn't want to be woken up. He certainly didn't want another round with the belt.

Jesse shuddered at that thought. He had to show Mr. White that he could be good. Maybe he could go down to the kitchen and make them both breakfast. Then the older man would be happy with him.

He slowly slipped out of bed and made his way down to the kitchen. What did Mr. White like? Maybe he could try his hand at huevas rancheros again. He'd need to find some eggs first…

He made his way over to open the fridge, and was surprised to find his arm aching again. He hoped like hell that was planning on going away sometime soon. Maybe this time he had just slept on it wrong. He solved the issue by opening the fridge with his other arm, as awkward as he found the motion. Maybe he'd talk to Mr. White about it. He would probably know what to do.

There was a carton of eggs sitting at the top of the fridge, and he reached in and took them out with his bad arm, placing them on the counter. Okay, so that was the eggs. He needed some salsa, which he found, but Mr. White didn't have any tortillas in his fridge. Jesse would just have to improvise.

He took a frying pan and broke four eggs over it, taking care to try and pick out the shells. He knew Mr. White wouldn't be nearly so forgiving as Jane had been.

Jesse turned on the heat and smiled at himself. Mr. White was going to be pleased with him…

He heard the sound of the door opening and sighed. There went his chance to surprise Mr. White, anyhow.

"Morning, Jesse," Mr. White called. He looked at the oven and Jesse had a sudden panic. What if Mr. White were angry with him for touching his things? He opened his mouth but nothing came out, every attempt to apologize just becoming a complete trip of the tongue.

Mr. White looked around, seeming to consider the scene.

"I… Uh… Thought I'd make you breakfast," Jesse managed, "To… uh, make up for yesterday. And to say… to say thank you for taking care of me."

Mr. White's lips curled into a smile.

"That's very nice of you, Jesse. Good boy." He walked over and put a hand on Jesse's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Looks like you're not so hopeless after all."

Jesse smiled nervously, not sure whether he ought to take the words as a compliment or as a chastisement.

"I… uh… The eggs are almost ready," he said instead. Jesse scooped up the eggs and placed them on a plate, before applying salsa and some salt. He carefully balanced it, feeling so clumsy even with just such a small task. He placed in before Mr. White with almost a bow, and his head was flooded with the strangest image – that of himself at Mr. White's feet, licking his boots as the older man patted him on the head. Jesse shuddered.

"Thank you, Jesse," Mr. White told him calmly, and Jesse's shudder became a shiver. He felt strangely warm. This was all he had, he might as well be good at it. "You know, you can go ahead and grab some for yourself. You know you need to keep your strength up, don't you?"

Jesse nodded.

"I do." His voice was barely above a whisper as he scooped some egg on to a second plate and moved to sit across from Mr. White. "What… what did you want me to do today? More… more cleaning? 'Cause I, I could do that for you if there's… there's anything else you need fixed up around here." He started to cut his eggs and scooped up a small piece into his mouth.

"No, Jesse," Mr. White replied, "I had something a little different in mind. Eat up, and I'll tell you all about it."


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

"This is nice, Mr. White." Jesse's voice was quiet and tentative. A little worried that the weird calm that had settled over the older man wouldn't last. He almost didn't notice that his arm was still throbbing, or maybe he had just gotten used to it. Habituated.

Mr. White was sitting on the couch with the remote in his hand, sitting very close to Jesse. There was a weird kind of homey, family feel to the whole thing. Even though he was a captive – _but not really,_ Jesse reminded himself, _not really, I could leave anytime, I could just never come back._

"I'm glad, Jesse." Mr. White wasn't looking at him, not directly. Instead he was staring ahead at the television. He had turned it to _Cops_, but it hadn't stayed in any one place for very long. Maybe they both needed distractions.

"Hey… lookit… that guy…" Jesse mumbled, not really coming across very coherently. His mind was all jumbled, even if he felt at peace right now. Even if things were okay right now.

"Use your words, Jesse," Mr. White said, annoyed. His voice had a crisp sharpness to it, like an adult disciplining a child who had got on his last nerve. Jesse couldn't help it; he made a little squeak of fear.

Mr. White's features softened at it, as if he was satisfied now that he had gotten Jesse where he wanted him. Where he needed him. He even reached out an arm and looped it around the younger man, pulling him in to lay his head on Mr. White's shoulder.

Jesse let out another sound, but this one was a contented mewl.

"I'm really tired, Mr. White," he admitted. "My eyes feel so… they're so heavy." Everything in him just wanted to sleep. But he knew that if he allowed himself to give in to that sleep, then Mr. White might not be the same when he woke up. He needed nice Mr. White, caring Mr. White… oh, what was he kidding? Obviously he needed mean Mr. White, too. To discipline him, to keep him in line… to keep him alive. It was becoming ever-clearer that Jesse wouldn't be able to make it if he had to go it alone.

"That's okay, Jesse," Mr. White soothed. "I don't think I'm going back home tonight."

"Does… does that mean…" Jesse's voice was quiet, and full of hope. "Stay with me tonight. You feel so warm. So safe. I… I love you."

He didn't know where the words had come from. Just some kind of need, deep within him. Mr. White cared about him. He always would. He would protect him. Jesse wouldn't have to sleep and be haunted by those horrible things, those… those things like Jane and Gale and now Drew Sharp and how he had fallen off his bike and died, how the light had gone out in his eyes. If Mr. White were there, he could keep all that away.

Mr. White turned and blinked at Jesse, and the younger man flinched. He must have said something wrong; he shouldn't have said that he loved Mr. White like that. Mr. White didn't want that, God, he only cared about Jesse in a former student kind of way, in a father-son kind of way, and Jesse had hopped way over the line and now Mr. White was going to throw him out on his ass and there was nothing Jesse could do to stop it.

And then Mr. White moved his hand to Jesse's cheek. He stroked it, softly, as he made sure that Jesse's eyes were meeting his own. But maybe he should look away. Maybe that was what Mr. White wanted instead. Deference. Submission. Wasn't that what this was all about?

"I love you too, Jesse." Walt's voice cut him out of his thoughts. "That's why I'm doing all of this. Because I am that one person out there who truly loves you."

A chill ran up Jesse's spine. He wasn't sure whether it was good or bad.

"You love me too?" he asked softly. He reached out and clung to Mr. White. "Please don't ever leave. I couldn't… couldn't take it." His mind was acutely aware of his arm throbbing again, but it barely registered against all the emotion.

"I know you need me, Jesse," Mr. White told him. "And I won't leave. So long as you follow the rules, you can stay. I'll take care of you. And I'm patient, Jesse. I'll keep going over them with you when you need a… reminder." He touched Jesse's shoulder softly, patted it. "It's okay, Jesse."

"I promise to follow the rules," Jesse whispered. "I won't… I know I'm bad, sometimes. Thank… you for putting up with me." He blinked, and there were tears in his eyes. Was he that bad? Yes, yes he was. He had killed a man. More than one. He had blood on his hands and he had screwed up everything and everyone he had ever loved. Even his family, even his own flesh and blood had given up on him and didn't want anything to do with him anymore, so he needed to hold on to whatever he still had. And what he still had was Mr. White and his strict rules and his… whatever this was. "Mr. White? I… I'm tired. Could you put me to bed now?"

Mr. White looked at him with an odd gaze. He seemed pleased, as if some plan Jesse was too exhausted to understand was working perfectly. All Jesse wanted was to feel like someone cared about him. He still wasn't far from the smells and sounds of that gutter he'd been found in, the ones where junkies would have stepped over his dying body on the way to another hit.

Everything Mr. White had told him had been true, after all.

"Of course, Jesse. I will."


End file.
